


five love letters

by mostlikelydefinentlymad



Series: I lived, I loved (I was here) [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Grief/Mourning, John Watson's Reichenbach Feels, Love Letters, M/M, Movie: A Game of Shadows, POV John Watson, Post-Canon, Prose Poem, belongs to this series but can stand on its own as well, ritchieverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-16 20:24:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9288257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostlikelydefinentlymad/pseuds/mostlikelydefinentlymad
Summary: "Schicksal."It is six months to the day before I lose him. He's sprawled across my bed, all arms and legs and lean muscle.I have not met Mary yet, he has not taken himself from me yet.Looking back now, there are too many yets and I hate it."What did you call me," I ask."Fate.""Mm, mystics."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Order of reading:  
> WHAT THE WATER GAVE ME  
> FIVE LOVE LETTERS  
> FROM A PAST LIFE (FEELS LIKE I SAW A GHOST)
> 
> The latter is a work in progress sequel. Dedicated to my loyal ritchieverse readers.  
> Small fandom though we are, you make me feel welcome xoxo  
> Note: I promise you a happier ending for our boys in the last fic and less pain.

**ONE**

_(three days after the funeral)_

_*_

The Earth orbits the Sun. In between the here and now, the whisper and the shout, they rotate.

 _I left the light on for you,_ the sun says. His voice is the farthest from angelic, rusted with misuse.

 _I waited,_ whispers the earth.  _I planted orchids and kissed each tender bud, I thought of nothing but you._

They'll never touch but god knows they're going to go on trying until the clouds give up their ghosts

and the silver moon shines upon them - two and one.

Yes I do believe we're ships with their wayward captains, yellowed light lost in the fog.

And it's a damned shame no one told the sun how to go on shining when its reason for rising is no more, 

I never had a chance to say goodbye.

 

 

**TWO**

_(post Reichenbach)_

_*_

It's three a.m. and there are lapels in my palms; scratchy wool that smells of London and cheap cigars.

Chemicals and a rain that has long since dried. His hair is slicked back, curls brushing his neck, my stolen vest covering skin.

The band begins to play a lively tune and his eyes look like every risk I've taken in his honor, every risk still to come.

He speaks of cases and details, of spectacular homicide and surgical procedures. It is to be our first and last dance in the public eye,

(We do not know of this horrible truth yet. We smile, love has made fools of us.) 

 

 We waltz, glove to glove, mere clothing separating a need. 

"By the way, who taught you how to dance?" 

The world is reduced to a sliver, a hushed secret behind closed drapes.

He had. Every week for three months; our feet scuffing hardwood where a rug had been only minutes before.

In the midst of a crowded ballroom with diplomats in every corner, he tilts his chin toward mine in search of a kiss.

The music ebbs and flows; if our love had a soundtrack this would be it. _He_ would be it.

Somewhere in the corrosion of my mind, logic tells me this is a recycled memory with altered details. A _What if_ and nothing more. 

 

" _You_ did."

 

A thumb roughened by years of abuse at the hands of potentially fatal chemicals and mad experiments brushes against my lower lip;

 I can almost taste him.

_If I were to part my lips I could-_

A knock at the door startles me, I throw back a mound of blankets and rush toward the door of a flat that holds no memories of him.

I half expect rich brown eyes that haunt, arms that I ache for-

"....I"

There is no one, must've dreamed up a world where Sherlock Holmes still exists. 

Nothing is real here, nothing.

 

 

**THREE**

_(post Reichenbach)_

*

 

She compares me to a frosty windowpane in the heat of Summer; a man wandering and lost. A soul stuck in the in between.

The man who knows where he must go but cannot seem to get his feet off the ground, he should've melted by now.

Should've been a puddle in another life. Should've did a lot of things different. 

"You miss him," Mary murmurs. I cannot breathe for lack of him. I do not miss him. I mourn him in a way that holds love to the flame.

"Yes," I reply. Because it's easier than choking through air that is no more. The deep inhale as the water took him.

We kiss goodnight and when we're not looking, the cavern between us grows. 

 

 

**FOUR**

_(post Reichenbach flashback)_

_*_

 

The first time I ever loved something with my whole heart, I was terrified.

Jitters, they called it. As if a mild tremor could ever contain an explosion, as if my heart could handle it.

It's the after shocks that get you and she did. 

I'm fourteen and she's the prettiest sight for sore eyes. Freckles dance upon cheeks tinted pink from the chilly November air.

Hair the color of freshly mined coal splays across her collarbones like an invitation -

I want to carry it in a locket so I can always find my way back to her

We're picking apart poetry when I kiss her cheek. It sets off a domino effect-

Me, reaching. Her, running away. 

It's two weeks before we speak - "I don't want this," she says. Voice steady and clear. 

Four words, twenty six letters of the alphabet and she strings them together to break me. 

"I never liked you." I lie and it tastes wrong.

Love is a lesson in truth (it will take years for this to make sense), I am building a foundation upon the very opposite.

I am not ready, I wonder if I ever will be. 

We part ways and I carry a portrait of her for three months, I carry her with me.

 

 

**FIVE**

_(post Reichenbach flashback)_

_*_

 

 "Schicksal."

It is six months to the day before I lose him. He's sprawled across my bed, all arms and legs and lean muscle.

I have not met Mary yet, he has not taken himself from me yet.

Looking back now, there are too many  _yet_ _s_ and I hate it. 

"What did you call me," I ask.

" _Fate."_

"Mm, mystics." 

London is resting weary bones, snow is wrapping her in a white blanket. Inside, we drag our chairs closer. 

We stoke the flames and I can't help but marvel -  _Will I ever get used to this?_

"Yes, my dear. I do not believe, as you well know. But it's a novel concept, is it not? A meeting of the minds, recognition." 

Yes.

I nod. We've been here before. We keep coming back to this place: 

Love him

Lose him

Love him

Lose him

_Schicksal._

"Perhaps it will be kinder to us," I offer. 

"Until then-" Holmes replies. He has pulled himself to his feet, arm extended.

"-dance with me," he finishes. 

I take his hand. 

 Love him

_Lose him_

(We never see it coming.) 


End file.
